Hit and Run

I lifted her head and made her drink a little. Then she pushed the glass away with a shudder.

'I'm going to see what has happened,' I said. 'Wait here. I'll be as quick as I can.'

She nodded, not looking at me.

I looked at the clock on the overmantel. The time was twenty minutes to eleven.

'Just wait here. I shouldn't be long.'

Again she nodded.

I left her and went down to the Cadillac. I paused and looked at the broken headlamp and the bent fender. I realized I would be crazy to take the car out on the road in this condition. If someone spotted the damage they might put two and two together when the news broke in the morning's papers as I knew it must break.

And yet I had to have a car and have it fast. Then I remembered that Seaborne who owned the house farther down the road kept a car in his garage for his vacation. I had been to his place off and on, and I knew he kept the key of the garage on a ledge above the garage doors. I decided to use his car.

I got in the Cadillac and drove fast down the road to the house. Leaving the Cadillac outside, I went to the garage, found the key and opened the double doors.

Seaborne's car was a battered 1950 Pontiac: a car he carted his six children around in when he came down here. I drove the Pontiac out on to the road, left it with its engine ticking over, then I got into the Cadillac and backed it into the garage, shut and locked the doors. I dropped the key into my pocket.

I got into the Pontiac and drove fast to the highway. It took me ten minutes to reach the beach road.

I approached the intersection cautiously. There were about six cars parked along the grass verge, their dipped headlamps making puddles of light along the road. A bunch of men and women were standing together looking towards the head of the beach road. Blocking the entrance to the road were two speed cops, standing beside their parked motor-cycles.

With my heart slamming against my ribs, I pulled up behind | the last of the parked cars and got out.

There was a fat man with a Panama hat resting on the back of his head standing alone by his car, his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the speed cops.

I walked over to him.

'What goes on?' I said, trying to make my voice sound casual. 'What's the trouble?'

He turned to look at me. It was dark, and the lights from the headlights of the cars reflected downwards. He could see my legs and feet, but there wasn't much else of me he could see to recognize later.

'An accident,' he said. 'A cop got himself killed. I've always said these cops ask for trouble the way they get in front of you. Well, this one pulled that stunt once too often.'

I felt cold sweat break out on my face.

'Killed?'

'Yeah: a hit-and-run job. Can't say I blame the guy who did it. If I was unlucky enough to kill a cop, and there were no witnesses, damned if I would stick around and apologize. If they catch him, they'll crucify him. I've always said the cops in this town are no better than the Nazis were.'

'Killed him, did you say?' I scarcely recognized my voice.

'That's right: ran over his head. He must have hit the side of the car, and then the poor devil must have fallen under the rear wheel.' He pointed to a tall, thin man who was talking busily to the crowd. 'That's the fella who found him: the one in the grey suit. He told me. He said the poor guy's face was like a sponge of blood.'

Suddenly one of the speed cops came stalking across the road.

'Hey, you bunch of vultures!' he bawled, his voice violent and tough. 'I've had about enough of you. Get out of here! You hear me? It's swine like you in your hunks of metal who cause the accidents! Get out of here! Get out, the lot of you!'

The fat man said out of the corner of his mouth: 'See what I mean – a Nazi,' and he walked over to his car.

I went back to the Pontiac, started the engine, made a U-turn and drove back fast to the bungalow.

When I walked into the lounge, I found Lucille huddled up in one of the big easy chairs. She looked very small and defenceless and frightened, and her face was the colour of old parchment.

As I came into the lounge, she stiffened and stared up at me.

'Is it all right, Ches?'

I went over to the cocktail cabinet, poured myself a double whisky, added a little water and drank thirstily.

'No, I wouldn't say it is all right,' I said, moving to a chair near hers. I sat down, not looking at her.

'Oh.'

There was a long pause, then she said: 'Were you able … did you see ...?'

'The police were there.' I couldn't bring myself to tell her she had killed him. 'I didn't see him.'

Again there was a pause, then: 'What do you think we should do, Ches?'

I looked at the clock on the overmantel. It was now twenty minutes past eleven.

'I don't think we can do anything,' I said.

I saw her stiffen.

'You mean we don't do anything at all?'

'That's what I mean. It's getting late. I'm going to take you home.'

She sat forward, her hands on her knees, and she stared at me.